


Tear Your Skin at the Stitches

by orphan_account



Series: Howl at Hallowed Ground [7]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angry!sex, Darling Pan - Freeform, F/M, Porn With Plot, as per usual, suggested non con, wendy x peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 19:43:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter takes Wendy back, and decides that her wings need to be clipped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tear Your Skin at the Stitches

Before Hook can stride out the door to meet Peter head-on, Wendy catches his arm.

“Are you a complete _fool_?” she hisses, but concern seeps into her voice when she catches the frantic look in his eye.

“He’ll kill them,” is all the man says, but still she holds him, her fingers tightened on his elbow.

“If you don’t make _this_ ,” she gestures between them, “convincing, he’ll kill us both. So play the part.”

Hook passes a hand over his face, letting out a resigned gust of air. His expression is tired, the black smudges that seem to be permanently fixed under his eyes deeper than usual. He’s been worried about this day, she can tell. He nods. “What do you need me to do, lass?”

“Hold on to me. Look wary. _Don’t_ taunt him.” Wendy orders, knowing he’ll likely do the opposite, and offers him her arm.

Instead, the pirate steps forward and presses his lips to hers, cupping her cheek. His hand is cool and dry, his fingers rough, and she finds herself leaning into his touch – if only for a moment. He keeps his kiss chaste and sweet, but she can still taste the bitterness.

It’s not as if he loves her – she has the word _Milah_ mumbled into her skin often enough to remind her of that – and she doesn’t love him. But they’ve both taken refuge from the hurricane that is Pan, and they both bear his scars. Wounded things knit their bones back together side-by-side, after all, and to this rule they are no exception.

To leave him is to leave the place that she allowed herself to heal.

She knows she’ll miss the confines of the cabin, the safety and comfort of the bed he gave her and the dining room. For three days, she _itched_ for the next stage of her plan and, even though she wishes against her very soul she didn’t, Peter. But now the moment has come to leave, and she finds that Hook’s company has become welcome in her life. For three days, he gave her a kindness she’d long forgotten.

But, Wendy is like the wolf in more ways than one; she’s used to the cold, the sharp, and she’s not about to dull her claws or quieten her howl because of a man’s touch.

She must betray Hook. This she knows. But with every piece of their alliance forged, with every touch, something in her awful heart cracked and shone red again. The black is Peter, the red is Hook, and the ache she feels when she looks at the sea, at _beauty,_ is Tink and Tootles and her brothers.

Every single time she let herself have something, let herself love, the boy king has taken it away. He took her from her home, and when Bae came after her – when he _finally_ found her – she was sobbing on the ground with no strength left and Peter simply snapped his fingers and the boy she loved was gone. Every time the flowers bloom, Peter makes them wither and die.

And when she managed to make herself strong, to make herself steel, the game began.

The only way to win is to purge her heart and make it black, to grit her teeth and cast out every scrap of compassion – because he will exploit _every_ weakness she has until she gives in to him. She may have him, now, but there’s no telling when he will become bored with the game, only that it will be _soon._ In order to free herself, she has to burn it all to the ground. She has to devour his kingdom in her flames.

So she pulls back, moves her cheek from Hook’s palm. She turns away from him, clasping her hands together behind her back. She doesn’t need to state her orders – he circles her wrists in one hand, slipping his other arm across her chest so that the tip of his hook is pressed to her chin. He can’t see the way she’s swept her hair to one side, exposing the purplish bruises he’s sucked onto her neck.

“Ready, lass?” he asks her, husky against the shell of her ear.

“When am I not?” is all she says in return.

She straightens her spine as the door to the cabin is opened, and daylight floods in.

And with that, Wendy Darling is thrust into the belly of the beast once more.

It’s high noon – or, pertaining to Neverland’s strange passing of time, the sun is directly overhead. She squints against the force of it, blinking so her eyes adjust to the glare. She can hear the mutterings of the pirates, the Lost Boys, just a little way ahead. The ship stinks of unease. Her heart begins to hammer in her chest, and nausea coils in her stomach.

She wonders what Peter’s expression will be. She wonders if he’ll grin, playfully pretending he’s only here because _nobody takes what’s his_. Or will his eyes darken, his cruel mouth twisted into a snarl? Will he show his true colours as the sky goes grey before a storm, show the whole of Neverland that she is _his Wendy-bird_ , his _Darling_?

It scares her that she doesn’t know.

Hook drags her up the rickety steps that lead from his cabins to the deck, taking pains to hurt her as little as possible. She growls and kicks, not granting him the same courtesies. Her boot makes contact with his shin, and he grunts. Thankfully, he keeps his gaze fixed ahead and his frown unforgiving.

She hisses at him, spewing insults and poisonous words that are sharpened with the intent to sting – _coward bastard idiot fool drunk_ – and she hears the boat fall silent.

“Killian.” Peter greets, watching as they step onto the deck.

His gaze is cold with fury. His mouth twitches, flickering between a mocking smile and a snarl. He stands with his hands by his side, broad shoulders thrust back. A dagger rests in his palm, and she can see how it drips blood.

The youngest pirate – his name, long forgotten – lies at Peter’s feet, his mouth gaping open to match his throat. There’s crimson all over the white of his shirt, still bubbling from the freshness of his wound. His legs are spread-eagled, as if he’s been scrambling to flee, and his dead hand lies limply over his neck. She knows that, in his last moments, the boy would have tried to close the cut. He looks no older than she.

Hook stiffens behind her. “Pan.” He replies, his voice strangled.

The pirates and the Lost Boys have divided to either side of the ship, their backs to the lip that overlooks the ocean. From what she can see, only one is dead. The others are minimally injured – a cut here, some blood there – but they are mostly shaken. She spots Tootles, who wisely chooses to give no evidence of his relief at seeing her. She rakes her eyes over each of the boys; from Slightly, who gives her a mocking salute, to Rufio, who stands with his hand on the shoulder of a younger boy.

And then, finally, Wendy lets her gaze meet Peter’s.

He looks ragged. Paler than she’s ever seen him, the bags under his eyes standing out in sharp contrast. The green of his irises are murky, swimming with an ice-cold fury that brews like the pit of the ocean before it becomes a storm. He seems to be trembling out of his own skin, vibrating at the edges, and she recognises the state he’s in as a combination of rage and bloodlust.

He stares back at her for a moment, his lips parting as if to say something but it dies in his throat. His eyes drop to the marks on her neck, just above the collar of the shirt that is so obviously Hook’s, and then darken.

“You’ve got something of mine.” He seethes, kicking aside the young pirate’s body as he prowls towards her.

Hook tightens his fingers around her wrist briefly. “I want a trade, Pan.”

Peter laughs, the sound of it grating in the tension that surrounds them. He keeps walking, his head angled down but his eyes fixed on the bruises at her throat, fingers curling round his dagger. “What’s to stop me from killing your crew and just… taking her?”

The insinuation is obvious. The boys don’t get it – perhaps there’s an inking in the way Rufio’s head jerks, just a little – but the pirates do. Each of them collectively tenses, their expressions wary – and Wendy could just _kiss_ them.

She’s barely had to work at _all._ It’s obvious that they know what has been happening in Hook’s cabin, clear in the set of their faces, and the boy king of Neverland picks it up immediately, like a hound smelling blood on the wind.

Peter’s nostrils flare, and he bares his needle-teeth. “I can take her _whenever I want,_ Killian. You can’t stop me.”

The words are petulant, but the tone chills her to the core. She struggles against the pirate, gasping out a “Peter –”, and it’s a desperate sound, full of anger and _begging_ for her violent revenge to go unchecked. She makes her eyes wild and her mouth snarling, bares a horrifying shriek to the whole of Neverland that makes the Lost Boys grin and the pirates shudder. She reaches for him with her whole body – the wolf straining against the trap of her skin – and it’s only half a lie.

He makes a half-noise in his throat that sounds like a promise, stretching his arm out as if to touch her, but lets it fall to his side when the Captain presses the metal of his hook harder against her chin. “Watch it, Pan,” he commands, “this is a negotiation. Beans, or _Wendy_ becomes acquainted with the meaning of my nickname.”

The way he purrs her name, his lips next to her ear and an undoubtedly smug smirk at his mouth, is enough to make Peter bristle. The boy growls, his stance widening, and draws himself to full height.

“ _Fine._ ” He grits out, practically spitting in his rage.

Wendy very nearly rolls her eyes. It’s all a part of the plan to have them fight over her, to have their masculine sense of power and pride cloud their judgement, but she never imagined it would be this… well, _dramatic._ Instead, she makes a show of straining towards him, kicking her foot back at the pirate.

He wrenches her back, and the sharp of his hook nicks the skin just under her jaw. She hisses, fury building with the bead of blood that trickles down her throat. He smooths his thumb over her wrist, a small gesture to ensure his apologies, but she makes no such gesture in return.

“Spirited little thing,” Hook comments, “lucky man, you are.”

Rufio is staring unabashedly at her now, and she knows he sees the marks of her short – albeit passionate – tryst with the Captain.

Peter curls his lip slowly, barely keeping his anger in check. It skulks along the furrowed line of his brow, amidst the murky depths of his eyes, behind the jagged row of teeth in his mouth. He’s breathing heavily, his chest heaving, and there’s bloodthirst written clearly in the way he stares – livid – at the pirate. He doesn’t answer, clenching his jaw.

“I want two beans, and your bird goes unharmed.”

“Two?”

“Two.” Hook affirms.

Peter goes to take one threatening step closer, but stops when the pirate shakes his head. “Why?” he demands.

Hook tuts mockingly. “That,” he says, “would be telling, now wouldn’t it?”

He meets Wendy’s eyes, and this time he doesn’t break the contact. He looks tired, a thin sheen of sweat on his face and neck. She wonders if he’s gotten thinner, or if she’s just imagining it; the slash of his cheekbones are more prominent, his scowl more skeletal.

He reaches into his pocket, and draws out two white beans. They are thrown in a shimmering arc, soaring towards Hook, but another pirate leaps to catch them. He plucks them from the air, grinning triumphantly with a black-toothed mouth.

“Got ’em, Cap’n.” he rasps.

“Good man,” Hook says conversationally. Then, to Peter; “I’m not stupid, Pan. Get your boys off the ship and I’ll give your bird back.”

The boy king’s face twists into a mask of rage, grey and shadowy – his mouth full of knives, a roar brewing in his throat – and then he vanishes.

Wendy expects him to shatter back into existence behind them, slit the pirate’s throat – _you’ve pushed him too far you fool now you’ll be dead and the wolf will be imprisoned –_ and clearly, so does he, because a second later she’s sent stumbling toward Rufio.

The boy goes to catch her, but she twists away from him and steadies _herself_ , already whipping round to see where Peter has gone. The pirates are breathing ragged, shouting in dismay and fear. She feels a tug on her skirt; Tootles peers up at her, frantic, and she puts her arms round him before she can think.

The boys look at her in surprise, and she challenges back with a mere raise of her eyebrow, although she can’t blame them. She hasn’t done anything remotely motherly in nigh on eighty years.

“OK?” Tootles murmurs, and she nods.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

The pirates are in hysterics, but the Lost Boys remain quiet. They know that their leader will come, and that the best – the _only_ – thing they can do is await orders.

Wendy, however, awaits to learn the game.

A moment passes. Hook has drawn his sword, the tip grazing the deck. She knows from experience, having used to spy on the pirates when they set foot on land for practise, that no matter where Peter’s onslaught appears from, he’ll be ready. The man can flick up his blade with a mere twist of his wrist, and his grip will be true and strong.

Perhaps she should have asked for lessons. She can fight reasonably well, able to hold her own in a match against all the boys except for _the_ boy himself or Felix, but she’s always dealt best in games and trickery. She doesn’t _really_ need a blade, not when she has the knack of the forest and two men under her control. The deadliest weapon in her repertoire is the force of her will, the set of her jaw, the authority in her voice and every step she takes.

Even now, holding a cowering boy to her chest and wearing only an oversized shirt, the pirates know this. They see the way she looks at them, the way she _waits,_ a predator resting before she strikes.

When Peter steps out on baited breath, he drags a prone Tinkerbelle with him by the hair.

She chokes back a wordless cry, hauling Tootles behind her. The fairy is unconscious, her clothes bloody as Pan’s knife. Or what’s left of them, anyway; they appear to have been slashed to ribbons. Wendy recognises it as an instrument of torture, of fear – Peter intended to frighten Tink almost to death, to take apart her clothes but not her body, to take his knife a whisper from her flesh. Her skin is unmarked, the blood clearly from his previous kill.

This is small mercy.

The boy pulls her towards Hook, letting her feet drag on the floor behind him. The noise is a hideous, sluggish scrape of her boots along wood, until he drops her with a _thud_ before the pirate.

“Lover for lover, eh?” Peter smirks, his voice far older than his body.

Hook says nothing, but the horror in his eyes speaks more than words ever could.

Wendy knows that, should she wake, Tink will be traumatised. The boy king has tortured her head, her thoughts – and he’s _much_ better at that kind of game than the physical sort.

(all your fault)

He turns, his eyes snapping to hers. He saunters over with an easy smile, but she still sees the way his gaze flickers to where Tootles stands to the way her hand is still on the child’s arm. Fear, not for herself but for her friend, shudders along her spine.

Peter exploits every weakness, and now he has another bargaining chip. Wendy has less pieces to play with than she started – in return for taking a chance, she has raised the stakes. Her new power comes with certain flaws. He stretches out a hand, and she knows he can see the chill that creeps at her heart.

“Come home, Wendy.” He intones, his voice smug and – _hopeful_?

He knows he has he in a corner. If she says yes, she admits Neverland is home. If she says no, she loses indefinitely.

She wants to tell him that home is not here, like she has so many times. She wants to slap his hand away, laugh in his face, twist away from him and _run._

But, she’s on a pirate ship. There’s nowhere to go. In order to win, in order to trick the trickster – she has to surrender some of herself to him. A necessary sacrifice. Wendy swallows, reminds herself of the promises she has made.

_Whatever it takes to be free. Lose the battles, win the war._

The girl has doubts, but the Queen has only steel and the wolf her howl.

She slips her hand into his. “Take me home.”

Triumph blazes in his eyes. Peter draws her to his chest, wrapping an arm about her waist. He turns to the pirates, Wendy clutched to his side, and gives a mocking salute. “Pleasure doing business with you, Killian.”

Hook, in turn, has Tink gathered close to him. He looks at Wendy with such sadness that she turns away, her eyes burning. There’s another scar on him to heal, she knows. A scar that she has left. The sadness is for her, for the knowledge that she is lost to him – another piece of his heart he cannot save.

Before Peter twists the shadows and takes them back to Neverland, she wonders whether the victory outweighs the defeats.

She wonders if the scars are worth their freedom.

The steel in her sings _wounds on your body but liberty on your tongue._

 

* * *

  
  


Peter takes Wendy to the stream that he built for her. The place is quiet and secluded as she remembers, sunlight shining through the gaps in the trees, casting dappled honey on their skin. A faint breeze stirs the grass at their feet, picking up strands of her hair as she looks to him in question.

“Where are the others?”

“Rufio has a bean. I wanted you to myself.” He takes a step forward, smooths his palm over her cheek.

She shivers at the touch. “I’m tired.” She whispers.

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Yes.”

“You’re lying.”

“Peter –”

He quiets her with a strange, desperate noise, pulls her to his chest once more, only this time it’s not a display of ownership. His arms are wrapped around her waist, his nose pressed to her hair. “He _touched_ you,” he chokes out, barely able to speak for his rage, “he _touched you_ and I want it _gone._ ”

The boy almost seems vulnerable, in that moment. He trembles, and she can feel that he _is_ skinnier, his bones sharper under her touch. She wonders if he’s been eating, or if he had lost his appetite during her absence, if he had felt its pressing weight. His breath comes in short pants on her ear, hot puffs of air, and he holds her to him as if she’s the only thing keeping him afloat.

And she hates him – oh, how the detestation _fills_ her to the brim. She _abhors_ him for making her question her claim to freedom. This boy has taken everything she ever was, fashioned her from compassion to cruelty, born mother to natural killer. He has turned her heart _black._ He is responsible for every terror she has known, every pain she had to endure. He has been her eternal shadow, the only constant in her nightmarish existence. He never fails to sharpen her plight, to keep the pain fresh.

Peter uses every trick in the book to keep her with him. This, for once, is not one of his many temptations – his appeals to the side of her that still wishes for affection. She knows what he feels. She knows that, in his own dark and twisted way, he loves her. Not truly, in the way that princes love their princesses, perhaps. No – Peter’s adoration comes in the form of obsession, of possession. He loves her in the way that one admires a pressed flower; he’ll use her again and again until she falls apart but forever seek to preserve her. And he presses her to him like he’d press that pretty flower now, murmuring his love in her ear.

She could be kind. She could wrap her arms around his narrow waist, tell him _I missed you_ and let him take her on her hands and knees, offer him what he wants. She could let him erase everything of Hook, every red crack in her awful heart. She could let him make it pure onyx again. She could forget what he did to Tink, the way the woman’s clothes had been ripped open, the way she _knew_ he had dangled her worst fear in front of her face.

But Wendy is a Queen, a wolf, a Lost Girl. These three things are strong, they are pure steel – they are not kind to the boys who lock them in cages. They do not close their lips and dull their words for boys who hurt those they love.

So, she presses her mouth to his ear. She sculpts the cruellest, sharpest grin she has and carves her tongue to match. She whispers, “I don’t.”

Peter hisses in a breath, wrenching himself away from her. He growls, low in his throat, raking a hand through the thick of his hair. “You –” he snarls, but breaks off, and bares his teeth. The trees creak, groaning, as if it’s been years rather than mere days since he’s been stirred into this kind of rage. She spots the beast within him; straining beneath the shallow stretch of skin and personhood, the ice behind his jaw.

Just like that, the vulnerability is gone, replaced only by the unforgiving cold.

 _Good,_ she thinks. She doesn’t need any scrap of humanity in him, now. She doesn’t need that in her heart.

(doesn’t need the love but oh how she _wants_ it)

They stare at each other, anger darkening each of their gazes. She feels his fury, hot and heavy on her skin. His eyes are wide and wild, his lips stretched back in a sneer.

“Liar.” He taunts, and she swears the entirety of Neverland _shifts_ as the unfamiliar is gone and their old game clicks back into place. “Wendy-bird, you’re _lying._ ”

She laughs, high and chilling. “I’m really not.”

His sneer turns to a playful, mocking smile. “Let’s not mess about,” he murmurs, as if they do anything but, “you want me. You _missed_ me.”

Wendy shakes her head. “What would I miss, Peter? Grass? Bark? _Dirt?_ ” she asks haughtily, even though none of these things bother her – have _ever_ bothered her – “At least Hook fucked me in luxury.”

Peter lunges for her, but she’s expecting it and sidesteps him easily. She doesn’t run. This is not the time to flee.

“Lying – you’re _lying_ –” he hisses, but another peal of laughter from her lips makes his mouth clamp shut.

“No,” she bites out, “no, I didn’t miss you. I miss _him,_ I miss the man who made me come and not some _boy_ –”

He lets loose an ear-splitting scream, contorting his feature into an animalistic mask of fury. It scrambles up his throat and bursts from his lips, makes the soil _froth_ like nothing she’s ever seen and the shadows squirm. The trees seem to loom over them suddenly, darkening the sky, as if enclosing the pair in their wooden embrace. He blurs forward instantly, so quick that this time she can’t evade him, and knocks her to the ground.

He pins her against the dirt with his body; his hips pressing into hers, his hands against her shoulders. He makes an awful, grating sound in his throat, and kisses her.

“ _You’re mine_.” He spits, forcing her mouth open.

Wendy wrenches her head to the side, seethes “ _no_ ” but even then, bucks her hips.

Peter chokes out a moan, moves his hands from her shoulders to her hair, pressing his pelvis against her core. The hem of her shirt has ridden up about her waist, leaving nothing but her knickers between her cunt and the rasping material of his trousers. The friction makes her hiss, squeeze her eyes shut and push the side of her head against the grass.

They move together, hips seeking the familiar rhythm even when their minds and words are in turmoil. He attacks what he can reach of her skin with tongue and teeth, scorching her flesh with his feverish lips, trailing kisses over her cheek and on her neck.

He nips at her jawline, trying to coax her mouth to his. Wendy can feel his hardness against her thigh and she cants upwards at the waist automatically, bringing her knees to squeeze at his sides, keeping him in place as she arches into him. The movement brings delicious pleasure to ache at her core, and she exhales with a groan, stubbornly keeping her head turned away.

To her surprise, Peter doesn’t yank her by the hair to obey him. He doesn’t even seem irritated – instead, he loosens his fingers in her tangled curls and moves back to sit on his heels. He watches her for a moment, forest-green eyes drinking in her form. They sweep over her face, the bruises at her neck, the rumpled shirt, her bare legs. He has his palms on her bent knees, smoothing both thumbs over the rough skin.

Wendy props herself up on her elbows, her breath hitching. She stares back at him, stares back at the way his eyes shine with lust and triumph. She presses her lips into a thin line, expression hardening to stone. “What?” she snaps, scowling.

His mouth quirks into a wicked grin. “I missed this.”

“I didn’t.”

He snorts. “Liar. You heard yourself, just now.” His palms slip forward, stroking the smooth, pale skin on the insides of her thighs. The bruises and bite marks have faded, but still his fingers find the echoes of them, tracing circles on her flesh.

She widens her legs for him unconsciously, straining towards his hands, and he smirks. “I closed my eyes and thought of Hook.” She tells him abruptly, even as she gasps for breath.

His smirk drops.

He grabs her by her calves, and drags her to him in one sharp motion. The backs of her thighs hit the front of his as he kneels over her, planting his hands on her hips. His fingers dig into her waist, and she can’t help but writhe under his grasp.

Peter tilts his head as he regards her, all dark eyes and dangerous frown. “Don’t lie to me,” he seethes, the jagged edges of his teeth flashing behind his lips.

(too late for that, awful boy)

Wendy utters a short, bitter chuckle. “ _Never._ ” She hisses, through the curved edges of her smile.

“You love me.” His voice is meant to be commanding, but there’s something of a boy in there, too – a broken, shaky thing, desperate.

He hears it as much as she does, and a hitching growl starts up in his throat. He’s furious, furious with _her,_ furious with _himself_ – he isn’t meant to reveal this much of his soul to her, this she knows. He is meant to be a mystery, a riddle nobody can solve. He and Neverland are a paradox, a flux; they were born from each other. Something like _that_ is not supposed to be burdened with feelings such as love. She knows, from the look on his face, that this goes against every rule he’s ever made for himself.

To love is for adults. He’s been able to kid himself that what they have been doing together has been in the realm of adolescence, but with the addition of _sentiment –_ well. It goes against his very being.

Wendy hooks her legs round his waist, leaning up to press her lips to his throat. She scrapes her teeth from his jaw to his ear, grinds the damp fabric of her knickers against his groin, eliciting a trembling moan from his lips. “ _Never,_ ” she whispers again, as he pushes her back to the ground.

There’s pain in his expression. Unrequited love is a feeling akin to suffocation, and she takes a perverse sense of pleasure in seeing something so _grown up_ plague him in such a way. Yes, there’s pain, but relief washes over his features, too; she’ll not trap him in his love, he thinks.

(wrong wrong _wrong_ )

Peter kisses her, licking into her mouth as his fingers seek her cunt. She’s slick already, sensitive and _wanting._ She whimpers when his thumb finds her clit, drawing rough circles that aren’t quite enough, that seem to be just on the _edge_ of satisfaction.

“Wendy-bird,” he breathes against her tongue, “I missed you –”

She silences him with a bite, sinking her teeth into his bottom lip. She swallows his yelp, tilting her hips up.

He seems to get the message; he slips his index finger inside her, pressing his thumb down hard enough for bolts of pleasure-pain to shudder through the edges of her skin. She cries out, reaching down to cup the front of his trousers. He bucks his hips, moaning, grinding his cock against her palm. She undoes his belt with deft – albeit trembling – fingers, barely waiting to let them fall past the jut of his pelvis to take him in her hand.

Peter’s forehead falls to rest on her shoulder as she adjusts her grip, getting used to the feel of him. It’s not much different to Hook’s, but somehow the heat of him sears more, draws a breathless sigh from her lips easier. She teases the tip, strokes him just the way he likes, and it feels so _familiar,_ so simple. She does not need to hold back.

He muffles a whimper against her skin, then bites. Wendy chokes out a pained cry, realising that it’s the same place Hook marked. His teeth sink into the sensitive flesh, hard enough to draw blood, and she knows that the only bruise there tomorrow will be _his._

Peter’s fingers work her to the edge, pumping and circling, until the electricity in her bones seems to be taking over her _entire_ being – and then stops. She growls, takes her hand from his cock to guide him back to her centre, but he shakes his head.

“I want you,” he orders, “ _all_ of you.”

He enters her suddenly, a swift movement that has her crying out in a breathless moan. He rocks his hips experimentally, sending sparks of fire down to her toes. He anchors her with one hand, pinning her wrists above her head, cupping her cheek with the fingers of his other hand.

Wendy nips at his jaw, murmuring his name quietly amidst the gasping sighs he elicits with each thrust. He presses his face to her neck, suckling at the skin. He fucks her with long, smooth strokes that are as torturous as they are punishing. They err just on the wrong side of release, teasing, and he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing.

“Tell me,” he demands, “does Hook make you moan like that?”

She writhes against him, bucking her hips helplessly in search of climax. She doesn’t – _can’t_ – answer, almost sobbing in frustration. She feels as if her blood is simmering, unable to come to a boil.

“Little mouse,” he taunts, “I won’t let you come until you tell me.”

He twists his hips; drives into her deep, making her back arch and a cry tumble from her mouth – but only once. He comes to a standstill, his fingers digging into the skin of her wrists. His smile is mocking, and it sparks anger in her soul but she’s so _close_ and release is only just out of her reach.

Wendy manages to hold out for a few more moments, the time it takes to snarl in his smug face. But one kiss to her neck breaks her resolve and she blurts out, “N-no.”

She finds that she can barely remember if it’s true or not.

Victory blazes in his eyes. “Good.” He whispers, and fucks her at such a pace that she feels as if she could explode.

They move together, hips rolling and lips meeting synonymously, groaning into each other’s mouths. His clothes rub against the skin of her thighs, leaving scratches and abrasions, but the sensation only adds to the dizzying ache that grows within her and she tips her head back to let loose a feral cry. It echoes off the trees, wild and recklessly loud.

Peter meets her noise for noise, and when she _finally_ comes, clenching around him, his shout is one of ecstasy.

He rolls off her, but draws her to him by the waist when she tries to sit up. Wendy aims a half-hearted kick to his shins, but she’s so tired that it barely connects. He chuckles, brushing his lips over her forehead.

She slips into an easy sleep in his arms.

 

* * *

 

Standing on the edge of his ship, Captain Hook whispers “goodbye, lass”, and throws the magic bean to the floor.

A portal opens, folding into existence before him, shimmering like glass. The winds pick up, and just before he steers the _Jolly Roger_ into its bowels he casts a glance upwards, to the darkening skies of Neverland.

He touches his fingers to his lips, murmuring a quick prayer for the bravest girl he’s ever known.

 

* * *

 

Tinkerbelle cries and cries into Hook’s pillow, sobbing as the jolt of passing into another world tingles through her. She looks at the nightgown the pirate had cleaned and folded, clutching it to her breast, and wonders if she’ll ever see her friend alive.

 

* * *

 

The moment Wendy awakes, she realises something is terribly, _awfully_ wrong.

The air feels different. Something has shifted; everything is… _looser,_ somehow. Fragile. As if any sudden movement could trigger something. A headache pounds, deep in the back of her head. Has she fainted? Fallen and injured herself? She tries to sit up, but her forehead meets a low ceiling and her eyes snap open.

She’s in a cage.

Immediately, she aims a solid kick to the door, but the cage _lurches_ and she becomes very, very still. Slowly, she peers out of the bars, and realises why Neverland feels different.

She is dangling several metres off the ground, suspended in a flimsy entrapment that looks as if it’s made from _bamboo._ Nausea rises in her throat, but she chokes it back. Her fingers curl round the bars, and she emits a furious howl that scratches the roof of her mouth and shakes the foundation of the island in its rage.

“ _PETER!_ ” she screams, her voice deep and hollow.

The wolf inside her sends itself into a fury, into a deep and dark fever. It goes mad with it, spitting and biting and _screeching,_ and instead of letting the beast sharpen her wits she makes it thirst for his blood.

“ _PETER!_ ” she calls again, her fingers curling with the promise of injury.

He is already there, of course. He greets her with a low chuckle that sounds from all around her. He doesn’t reveal himself.

“Don’t bother,” he crows, “I’m not letting you out just yet.”

“Why?” she snarls, and risks her safety by rattling the cage door, “ _why,_ Peter?”

Another chuckle. “I’ve let you spread your wings too long, Wendy-bird. It’s time they were clipped.”

He leaves without another word, and she is alone with her screams.

She doesn’t see how he winces when she begins to weep.


End file.
